AllFreeNovel
Share Us
A horrid, ugly sound escaped her. She turned her head, pressing her face into his chest, fingers grasping at his shirt. Her breath came in spurts.
Torrington’s fingers threaded through her hair, loosening the careful chignon at the back. “But just for today,only today, my love, you won’t think about such morbid things.”
“I won’t?” She sniffed.
“No. Just for today. Today we will be happy. Maybe make the macarons. Spend the day in bed reading from your collection of erotic books.” He pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek.
“My father’s books.”
“I disagree, Lady Torrington. I’m fairly certain they belong to you now. I’m sure there are lots of illustrations. Life can imitate art. Won’t that be fun?”
Rosalind smiled into his chest, inhaling the cedar and clean linen scent.
“So, do we have an agreement, my brazen baker?Justfor today, you will not think such awful thoughts. They are banished.”
She nodded. “Just for today.” She could do that. Put all those terrible feelings aside for now, as she had on their wedding night.
“Good. You may despair tomorrow, my love.” Then he tipped up her chin and kissed her, wrapping his arms tighter around Rosalind to pull her further into his lap. Torrington murmured beautiful nonsense into her hair, a great deal of it in French, until she stopped shaking.
* * *
Every day,Torrington repeated the same thing to Rosalind as she awoke, whispering it to her as sunlight streamed across the big bed in his room. Her adjoining chamber, they’d both agreed, was more of an immense closet and sitting room, for Torrington refused to allow them to sleep apart.
“You may despair over me tomorrow, but not today. Today we won’t think of it.”
And every morning, Rosalind did as her husband asked, loving him more with each passing day. When the fear threatened to invade her heart, she pushed it aside, instead focusing on the flood of orders Pennyfoil’s had received after Rosalind organized a small sampling of the King’s Tart, the name she’d given to the extravagantbaiser du ciel. Or spending hours poring over fabric samples and colors for Pennyfoil’s while approving the renovations for the building her husband had purchased which would house her new establishment.
But mostly, it was Torrington and her own happiness that filled her thoughts.
Once a week, her husband made sure to dismiss the staff, including Watkins, so he and Rosalind could create something marvelous in the kitchen together. Usually, the evening ended with an excellent meal, some of which her husband ate off her naked skin.
When the summons from the Duke of Averell inviting them to dinner arrived some months later, enough time had passed that the fear in Rosalind bloomed less frequently. The worry would never completely fade, she surmised, but it no longer dictated her life. And when it did surface, Rosalind would retreat to the kitchens or Pennyfoil’s and make pies or a cake until she could breathe again.
“Leo is home.” Rosalind strolled into her husband’s study, pausing to scratch Bijou’s ear. She held up the note. “Our attendance at dinner is required”—she consulted the paper in her hand once more—“as well as a request for lemon torte and a chocolate toffee cake.”
Torrington looked up from the ledger he’d been working on. “Thank goodness. I’m tired of earl duties. I’d much rather make a cake.” He reached out a hand. “But first, come here, Rosalind.” His voice lowered to a smoky purr. “Lock the door.”
She turned, smiled to herself, and shut the door, locking it behind her. “I’m due at Pennyfoil’s. We’ve a large order for Lord Rothwell.” Her partnership with Pennyfoil, already successful, was rapidly becoming the talk of London, for all the right reasons. Pennyfoil’s had become a destination, just as Rosalind had first imagined. And she had been endlessly discreet. No one suspected her involvement.
“Then I’ll be quick. Come. Here.” His gaze lowered to her mouth. “I have been thinking all morning of you naked, on your knees before me as you were last night.”
“You’re insatiable for an ancient rake.” She giggled, her body warming as he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her to his lap. Cupping his face between her hands she whispered, “I love you madly, Bram.”
“And I love you.” He crushed her to him, kissing her until Rosalind felt pleasantly light-headed. “My brazen baker. There is something I do almost as well as making the lemon torte.” Torrington pushed up her skirts. “Let me show you.”
**
